Marcus walked for weeks through this new land. It was different from the Americas he had just left. There were more people here. More villages and towns and castles. Roads that connected them all.
The language was becoming clearer in his mind. He was somewhere in what would become Europe. Maybe England or France. He wasn't sure yet. Geography changed so much over the centuries.
He avoided people when he could. But people found him anyway.
On a road through a forest, Marcus encountered a group of bandits. Six of them, blocking the path. They had weapons—clubs and knives and one rusty sword.
"Your money," the leader said. He was a big man with a scarred face and missing teeth. "Give us your money and you can pass."
Marcus didn't have any money. He never had money.
"Move," Marcus said simply.
The leader laughed. "You think you can tell us what to do? There's six of us and one of you."
Marcus sighed. "I don't want to kill you."
"You don't want to—" The leader stopped laughing. "You hear this? He doesn't want to kill us!"
The bandits all laughed. Then they attacked.
Marcus moved.
His fist caught the first bandit in the throat, crushing his windpipe. The man fell, gasping for air that wouldn't come. His face turned blue. He died in less than a minute.
Marcus grabbed the second bandit's club and yanked it away. Then he swung it at the man's knee. The joint shattered. The bandit screamed and fell. Marcus brought the club down on his head. The skull cracked. Blood and brain matter leaked out onto the road.
The third bandit had the rusty sword. He swung it at Marcus's neck. Marcus blocked with the club. The sword got stuck in the wood. Marcus twisted, tearing the sword from the bandit's grip. Then he drove the club into the man's stomach with enough force to break ribs.
The bandit doubled over. Marcus brought the club down on the back of his head. The skull collapsed inward. The bandit fell and didn't move.
Three down. Three to go.
The remaining bandits were backing away now, fear replacing their confidence.
"He's a demon!" one of them shouted.
They ran.
Marcus let them go. He dropped the bloody club and kept walking.
This happened several more times over the next few weeks. Bandits who thought Marcus was an easy target. Thieves who wanted his non-existent money. Each time, Marcus killed the ones who didn't run fast enough.
He started to recognize the pattern. The curse brought him to places of violence. To times of war and chaos. And it made sure he was always in the middle of it.
One day, while walking through a village, Marcus heard shouting. He followed the sound to the town square.
A crowd had gathered around a wooden platform. On the platform stood three people with nooses around their necks. Two men and a woman. They looked terrified.
A man in expensive robes was reading from a scroll. Listing crimes. Theft. Murder. Witchcraft.
The usual accusations.
Marcus watched as the executioner prepared to pull the lever that would drop the platform and hang them.
He should have walked away. These weren't his people. This wasn't his problem.
But the woman caught his eye. She was young, maybe twenty. She was crying, begging for mercy.
Something in Marcus's dead heart twitched.
Before he realized what he was doing, Marcus was moving through the crowd. He pushed people aside, ignoring their protests. He climbed onto the platform.
The executioner turned to him. "What do you think you're—"
Marcus punched him. Once. The executioner's jaw broke with a crack. He fell off the platform, unconscious.
The crowd gasped. Guards were pushing through the crowd now, hands on their swords.
Marcus pulled his knife and cut the ropes around the prisoners' necks. They fell to the platform, gasping.
"Run," Marcus told them.
They didn't need to be told twice. They jumped off the platform and ran into the crowd.
The guards reached the platform. There were eight of them, all with swords drawn.
"You just freed condemned criminals," the captain said. "That's a hanging offense."
Marcus looked at the nooses behind him, then at the guards.
"You can try," he said.
The guards attacked.
Marcus was unarmed except for his knife. The guards had swords and armor. But it didn't matter.
He ducked under the first sword swing and drove his knife up under the guard's chin. The blade punched through the soft tissue and into the brain. The guard died instantly.
Marcus pulled the knife free and grabbed the dead guard's sword. Now it was a fair fight.
He parried the second guard's attack and slashed across his throat. Blood sprayed. The guard fell, clutching at his neck.
The third guard stabbed at Marcus's chest. Marcus sidestepped and brought his sword down on the guard's arm. The blade cut through the bone. The severed arm fell to the platform, still gripping its sword. The guard screamed. Marcus kicked him off the platform.
The remaining guards were more cautious now. They circled Marcus, looking for an opening.
Marcus didn't wait. He charged the nearest one, beating aside his guard and stabbing him through the eye. The blade punched through the orbital socket and into the brain. The guard fell.
A sword stabbed into Marcus's back, between his ribs. Marcus grunted and spun, the sword still stuck in him. He grabbed the guard who had stabbed him and head-butted him. The guard's nose shattered. Marcus pulled the sword out of his own back and drove it into the guard's chest.
The wound in Marcus's back was already healing.
Three guards left. They looked at each other, then at Marcus, then ran.
Smart choice.
Marcus dropped his sword and walked off the platform. The crowd parted for him, people backing away in fear.
He left the village and kept walking.
That night, while making camp in the forest, Marcus heard someone approaching. He reached for his knife.
"Wait," a voice said. "Please, I mean no harm."
It was the woman from the hanging. She stepped into the firelight, hands raised.
"Why are you here?" Marcus asked.
"I wanted to thank you," she said. "You saved my life."
"Go away," Marcus said. "Being near me is dangerous."
"I have nowhere else to go," she said. "They'll be looking for me in every village. I'm as good as dead."
Marcus studied her face. She had brown hair and green eyes. She reminded him of someone. His daughter, maybe. Though his daughter had been dead for two thousand years.
"Sit," Marcus said finally. "But only for tonight. Tomorrow you go your own way."
She sat by the fire, warming her hands.
"My name is Eleanor," she said.
Marcus didn't respond.
"What's your name?" she asked.
"Marcus."
"Thank you, Marcus. For what you did."
"Don't thank me," Marcus said. "I'm not a good person."
"You saved three innocent people from hanging."
Marcus laughed bitterly. "I've killed thousands. Tens of thousands. Saving three people doesn't balance that."
Eleanor was quiet for a moment. "Why do you kill?"
"Because I'm cursed," Marcus said. "I've been killing for two thousand years. It's all I know how to do."
She stared at him. "Two thousand years? That's impossible."
"I wish it was."
Marcus lay down and closed his eyes, ending the conversation.
Eleanor stayed by the fire, watching him. Eventually, she fell asleep too.
When Marcus woke in the morning, she was gone. She had left without a word.
Good, Marcus thought. Better for her.
He packed his few belongings and continued on his way.